19 minute read
GRAVE MISUNDERSTANDINGS: Tamar Newton digs deep into bizarre headstones
MALICE
IN ‘UNDER’LAND
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Humans are malicious.Observations on animals have shown animals to be vengeful but not spiteful. The difference?
The difference between spite and vengeance is that spite is ill will or hatred toward another, accompanied with the disposition to irritate, annoy, or thwart; a desire to vex or injure; petty malice; grudge; rancour while vengeance is revenge taken for an insult, injury, or other wrong. The graves you are about to read about show true spite and vengefulness so powerful that those interred took their malice into the grave but weren’t happy to end it there. Such is the nature of a truly glorious grievance. You might be dead but you can still harbour and fester a grudge, and more importantly, let this immortal outrage be known to your enemy even after your demise. You somehow think it’s what they would want, such a dull drizzly ending to such an outrageous cruelty and cunningly fought battle to just suddenly expire over a midmorning cocoa on a Wednesday morning when both parties had planned so much more. Such enmity can only be applauded. Unless you were someone who just wanted a quiet life and thought their troubles were over with the funeral service of someone who really knew how to hate.
Those who died with malice in their heart maybe cannot bear the thought of those who might have driven them to an impromptu grave still gaily residing about their everyday existence. If only there was a way of curtailing the frolics of the alive and despised, despite the slightly unfortunate aspect of mouldering six feet below. These people knew.
Gravestone - St Bartholomew’s Church, Chipping
This is a tragic tale, but which also pleasingly includes pubs and ghosts as well as cool clothes, sex, death, malice and a double betrayal. A bit like Eastenders but with more ghosts. Lizzie Dean was, in the year of her demise in 1835, a pretty, young scullery maid who resided in the Sun Inn in the Lancashire village of Chipping and was known for her bright attire and pleasant nature. Then pretty, sweet young girl meets a cad and a bounder. It is an age-old tale that never ends well. Lovely Lizzie met a local lad, a man of means, he was charming and debonair (no, Lizzie, don’t even go there!) who told her many wonderful things about herself, made her feel special, more than just a wench to light a fire, wash jugs and clean pans. She was born for better things and with him, she felt safe, knew a whole new life was around the corner where maybe she would be the one in control, could wake up to a roaring fire that somebody else had made, hands less dry and cracked, her pretty eyes less tired, proper candles, a proper family. She just knew it. And then it happened! A proposal! Everything was going to be so different
now, think of all the multi-hued colours she could now wear, the hats, the wedding, the future. But charming lads are charming, some things do not change through the centuries and weddings take a long time to organise. Charming lads are handsome, charming lads have their ways. It was so important for her to keep her virtue but then again, she was practically married, practically. Surely nothing would happen? Once her ‘fiancé’ had had his way with her, suddenly a change of heart. He no longer wanted to marry such a charming young thing but instead soon afterwards decided that
Lizzie’s best friend was the one for him. Despite Lizzie’s desperate entreaties to the both of them, they became engaged.
Young Lizzie, virtueless, poor and heartbroken had lost everything and everyone she held dear to her heart. And worse, saw it given to another.
It was the day of the wedding, the day that should have been hers. Maybe if Facebook had been invented, Lizzie could have resorted to some cutting memes and received some calming ‘u ok huns? ‘ to pacify her utter bereftness and fury. A dark blustery November morning, November 5th, a date of passion, excitement, brightness and death. She walked up the stairs to the attic room of the pub overlooking the church and hanged herself. She carried a note with her. It said, ‘I want to be buried at the entrance to the church so my lover and my best friend will have to walk past my grave every time they go to church.’ Such romance, such spite, such a guilty admiration. Surprisingly for a suicide, her grave lies in the churchyard and buried under an ancient Yew tree. According to legend, the reason she is still unrestful is the fact that her grave was not in the required position, close enough to the footfall of those who loved her and betrayed her. Thus, she is said to still stalk the rooms of the Sun Inn and is still said to be very pretty. And dressed in very colourful clothes. Another source says that she cursed her ex-lover and wished their children to be born deaf and mute and thus was the case but nothing has been found to give this pleasingly Biblical legend credence. There is frustratingly little evidence as to her cruel lover and friend and their reactions to her deed. Did they turn their heads in shame or sneer and laugh at the brightly dressed girl with ideas above her station? And what of their children? History lies silent again. Unlike the ghost of
Lizzie.
If only she had been able to watch Carrie instead to get some more vengeful ideas. To hurt the hurter, to burn the church down instead of requesting to be meekly laid beside it. To run away somewhere, bearing the best and brightest silk dresses she could lay her hands on, the best silver candlesticks hidden beneath her layers. To be someone. Or to die whilst attempting to be somebody. In one way History has the last laugh. Her intended and his wife have forever vanished into history.
“Lizzie still speaks. Lizzie is still seen, still beautiful and still bright with her story that resonates through centuries.“
I went there to look for her grave. I could not find it. The small attic windows of the Sun Inn looked over me as I wandered around in vain, the church was closed, the day dying, single trees silhouetted against the sky. I thought to ask at the pub itself and despite its antiquity and having a dining room dedicated to Lizzie (such a privilege for a scullery maid, definitely not using her demise and ungodly resurrection for a certain fame) was filled with men, maybe some were of the type that Lizzie once thought could tame. Hunters, noisy and all dressed for a killing. I left. I had so far not been able to find the church records or indeed any other historical recordings of the date in question for such a surprising day of death and burial which does tend to make one wonder as to whether history may have been romanticised somewhat.
But then, an interesting thing. A look at the Parish Records of Chipping. Burial: 9 Nov 1835 St Bartholomew, Chipping, Lancs. Elizabeth Dean Age: 19 Abode: Chipping Buried by: E. Wilkinson, Vicar Register: Burials 1813 - 1853 from the Bishop’s Transcripts, Page 119, Entry 950 Source: LDS Film 1514321 A quick funeral, perchance because of the occasion of it, suicides were not ‘approved of’ in these times. The pleasure of breaking through history in such a small way is tainted by the fact that this girl really did live and thus may well have died in such a tragic desperate fashion (as opposed to all the other far more pleasant manners of dying). The recorded marriages of St Bartholomew’s of the time period, however, do not match up with the alleged suicide of Lizzie. The closest marriage before the date of her death was on the fifth of October and related to a widower re-marrying which does not fit the narrative of such a young cad and bounder. Maybe it was a desperate narrative spun to excuse the horror of self-murder. Maybe Lizzie never committed suicide at all but a pretty young thing suddenly expiring from all the things that a hearty young girl could suddenly expire from, became a different rumour, something more of an alluring tale as it was repeated and embellished over the years, decades and eventually centuries. Something
of a second death for Lizzie Dean, the death for now no reason and no romance, no spite.
The Peat Cutters Grave
According to the Grantham’s excellent website detailing unconsecrated graves, two neighbouring farmers on a windy fell near Lancaster were at war due to one farmer cutting more than the allowed forty cartloads. Outrageous and sacrosanct actions like this become things to dwell over, to worry and fury over during long cold winter nights. Sleep is ruptured. Bitterness grows stronger. The beauty of the fells is despoiled, only injustice can be seen now, not the brilliance of a winter sunrise. Eye and heart become tainted, inward, looking for the taunt of the neighbour, not the horizon. The wronged farmer found out he was not long for the world, found he was going to die, yet co still could not let matters lie. Of his mourning family, he refused to think, of never seeing another Christmas day dawn over the quiet lavender hued moors, no. He did not think about that. He did not think about the horror or pain of death. Or maybe as a human, a stupid mortal human who struggles with immortality, he focused on one thing and one thing only to stop himself thinking about anything else, anything important or worrying like his imminent demise. He hated the fact that his neighbour, the peat stealing monster would still be alive, smirking, still cutting illicit peat as he mouldered silently and furiously below. When the time came for his certain demise, he did not seek sanctuary in the civilised peace of a local country graveyard, soft turf, and iron gate, the peal of anciently cast bells every Sunday, the old bones of his family and friends gently turning to dust alongside him. He requested to be buried upwards in one of his own fields, facing the path his enemy had to use. At least the sorrow of dying was interjected with the pleasure of knowing his neighbour would have to face his lonely grave and face the grave injustices he had inflicted on his dead neighbour. Every single day. I hope the peat thief turned nervously at a sudden gust of wind, a strange cawing, a sudden billow of Something in the distance. Always in the direction of the hideous blasphemy of the standing up skeleton in unconsecrated land who somehow, the farmer thought, was always looking at him. I hope these good dead smiled as they died. And footsteps slowed and heads were turned by those who did them wrong. You can stay in luxurious converted barns at neighbouring Rooten Brook farm. Was this the enemy? It is historically known as a Quaker home, a gentle religion not known for their fire and brimstone. However, there is an interesting story of valour related to the premises as in 1687, 54-year-old Jennet Cragg rode singlehandedly to London on her own, not an easy ride in those times, on those roads and as a single quite old woman for her time. Her mission was to retrieve her orphaned grandchildren from an uncertain fate and bring them in her horse’s panniers to a safe home. A beautiful Quaker burial ground lies nearby, simple and restful, no fancy script, no manner of deaths, just names and dates in a quiet corner of the world, nothing to show the passing of time. No spite here. Joseph Thompson, Workington, Cumbria- a tale of two tales and two graves Tale 1: Joseph’s actual burial place was in the middle of a field, sources defer
as to whether it was his own field or in the middle of the moor at Scaw. A plain unembellished slab once lay there in the middle of this stark field near the howling gusts of the isolated Northwest coast. The weather stays the same throughout the centuries. His stone did not.
Joseph Thompson may here be found Who would not ly in consecrated ground Died May ye 31st 1745 Aged 63 when he was alive
Joseph had intended through spite for this resting place to be so, intended to be interred away from the consecrated ground of his church, from the place of holiness that had treated him so badly. Even in rest, his wishes were not kept to. His stone was moved because it interfered with the cultivation of the moor, placed by a road. Progress has always been more important than people. From the road junction in High Harrington a minor road (known locally as Scaw Road) leads northeast to join the main A596. The headstone lies on the left-hand side of this road close to a clump of trees half a mile from the Harrington junction. The actual grave lies in the middle of the field over the hedge. CHECK OUT MORE UNCONSECRATED GRAVES http://www. thegranthams.co.uk/ paul/graves/ His body still lies ignored and forgotten somewhere in the midst of a field. Nothing ever went well for Joseph Thompson. He was known for being an eccentric figure. He had the unusual skill of the time in the mid eighteenth century, for a farmer in a far-flung inhospitable area of being able to read. An overconfident old soul was Joseph. Proud of his abilities and keen to show them off or merely in spite, whilst the anxious clerk in church on a Sunday was reading his lines, he quickly and loudly read aloud the words the actual clerk was about to carefully enunciate before the poor man was able to do it himself. He was keen to be a victor in a race the other participant had no interest in winning. We have all worked with people like Joseph before. This was a time before unions and disciplinary procedures, a time before Human Resource Managers. The clerk had had enough of his careful writing being quickly spoken by some rough farmer. His gentle blood was up. He was being mocked, his words not his anymore, but muffled in Cumbrian canter, too quick and too rough to be understood but of enough significance as to ruin his speech, a ‘spoiler’ in the mid eighteenth century. One Sunday, one more outrage, the scruffy head of the farmer over his shoulder, reading so quickly and badly the words he laboured to write, the words he considered so carefully how to speak, the enunciation of certain words to really make the congregation stop and pause, to reflect awhile upon pastoral matters, rather than the mundane. This was his job, his livelihood but the farmer so close he could smell his breath, the sanctity ruined, the labours of speech and cadence ruined by that rough quick muttering and mocking burr.
Slapped him right across his smirking ruddy face in the midst of a stunned, no doubt delighted, furiously gossiping church and then he finally talked over him and before him. ... ‘Thee clerk or me clerk’. A furious Joseph was out for vengeance. He complained to the vicar, but the church can be and certainly was in those times a closed place. Nobody was going to chastise the clerk against some upstart rebel farmer with ideas above his station. An upstart rebel farmer with ideas above his station and a furious nature.
‘If I cannot please myself I shall come no more to your church’ were the last words spoken on consecrated grounds by Joseph. When his body started to fail and he knew his time had come, the horror of being taken back to the church, the place of his humiliation was absolute. He requested his body to be buried at midnight, in a bleak unconsecrated place in a time of darkness not light and sanctity. No readings, no sermons. He was dying but knew how he wanted the manner of his death. His anger at the church and the way they treated his helpful readings, the way they dismissed his fury at the way he had been treated, like a nagging wife! They were never going to get his body or his soul. Thus lies Joseph, No stone, no faith, just bones and ancient enmity. Tale 2: This is another version from a different source of Joseph and his antipathy towards the church, (from Curious tales of Workington) This time his thumb is more prominent. Yes, his thumb. It is said that back in 1744, the farmer suffered a slight farm related injury causing a festering swollen thumb, throbbing, engorged and unpleasant to smell (I will refrain from making any obvious joke). The NHS not being available, Joseph resorted to poultices of carrots, puppies, toadstools, and eels along with other less delightful substances but for some reason his condition (gangrene?) did not improve. The local vicar told him to put his affairs in order (‘you will die soon’ ) which is only then when Joseph resorted to a costly visit to a doctor.
The medical opinion was to chop the thumb off (the strong medical opinion at the time was to chop off offending diseased parts or to ensure the weak patient was relieved of more blood). Joseph duly consented to the first, keeping the thumb in his pocket, it was a costly thumb after all. Why waste it? We all know people like Joseph. In this story, Joseph still had faith in his church and decided his thumb should be buried in the sacred ground where the rest of him would one day lie. The vicar and his clerk did not like the idea of burying a thumb and it was then that the unholy argument of the first legend became to be. Joseph in this story is still a stubborn pig hearted man and persuaded his long-suffering wife to secretly bury the thumb in the graveyard. One can only imagine the arguments incurred after such an unreasonable request, number one being ‘bury your own damn thumb!’ An uncommon phrase in most arguments to be fair so maybe the novelty aspect won. But yet still Joseph complained, oh how he complained, oh how the place where his thumb should be, ached so hideously, oh the pins and needles in his dear departed thumb. Oh, how his entire body ached so! Rather than do the obvious thing and cut off his head and halt all lamentations, his long-suffering wife consented to going back to the graveyard and finding the severed thumb. A miraculous feat in the days before torches on mobile phones, a miraculous feat even now with them. He stopped moaning once he had his odorous thumb back from the grave (and she had a tale to tell to other embittered wives whilst rolling her eyes) but his anger towards the church had not dissipated and we go back to the first version where he asks to be buried in unconsecrated ground, with his dearly beloved blackened severed thumb beside him. History does not relate what his wife related back to him or where she hopefully peacefully resides with all digits intact and free from outrageous thumb related demands.
A lonely, murdered souls grave that is passive aggressive rather than spiteful Poor old Joseph Glendowing, murdered near Workington and the stone cutter made his death seem a slight irritation that his murderers might well have forgotten. We’ve all had nights like this. Is this a first mention of bowels on a gravestone? It should be because bowels have the intrinsic snigger aspect especially when a dead person is sad because they are all broken. There are no cries for a vengeful God to smite the murderer dead, just a sad lamentation of the unfortunate way they died like a post it note in a shared fridge sorrowfully reminding people to please not use the special gluten free bread.
Joseph Glendowing 1808 Murdered near this town June 15, 1808 His murderers were never discovered. You villains! If this stone you see Remember that you murdered me You bruised my head and pierced my heart Also my bowels did suffer part
Imagine the situation. It’s 1808, you’ve been to your favourite hostelry again, stagger through the graveyard, need to unleash that gallon of ale, your breeches are pulled down, you swear you will never do this again, how long have you been staggering home now? You swore this would never happen again a few months ago when you woke up covered in a gory matter, must have stepped in a badger again. A suitable place to piss. The headstone looms ahead of you. You lean in... read, a sudden recollection. Some strange fury from nowhere due to vaguely chastising remarks. A sudden remembrance of head bruising, heart piercing, bowels suffering partly. You turn around, leave. People remark on what a reformed person you are, how you do not go the alehouse anymore but how nervous you seem when you leave the church service. How pale you are nowadays. At the time of writing, nothing else can be found on poor Joseph Glendowing.
Tamar x
JUST WHO IS TAMAR NEWTON?
Tamar is just an everyday sort of person who looks relatively normal on the outside, although does have a penchant for a charity shop frock coat.Her interests lie in history and folklore, especially the darker side. She loves a good graveyard, the older the better, a good ghost story and searching for the forgotten history and facts behind old stories and mythologies. Tamar lives within sight of Lancaster Castle and at the time of writing currently has a black cat sitting on her knee. She has spent most of her life writing, particularly about the stories and ghosts behind gravestones. She loves unearthing old stories about alleged witches, cursed stones and ghostly phantoms then digging deeper to find out more, to research more, then fall down into a rabbit hole of history and legend. Tamar is a fan of MR James and vegan sausage rolls.
